


1984

by reveriemalfoy (im_reverie)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1984 (George Orwell) AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brainwashing, But it takes a while, Dystopian society, M/M, Minor Character Death, More of a dark fic to be honest, Oligarchy, Politics, Psychological Torture, Rebellion, Torture, Violence, slowburn, totalitarism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-19 17:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11318403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_reverie/pseuds/reveriemalfoy
Summary: Harry Potter is a member of an underground rebellion network called the Brotherhood. But he doesn't know it. Draco Malfoy works in the Ministry of Love, and he works as a member of the Thought Police. He is sent after Harry. It is always a tantalising tale to see two the two unlikely meet. Under the iron fist rule of Big Brother and Ingsoc, these two men are tested, their limits pushed to the extreme physically and mentally. (Warning: Angst)





	1. Ingsoc

**Author's Note:**

> This story will not really come clear to you if you have not read George Orwell's 1984. I think everybody's read it by now, with Donald Trump in the office, I heard it was a best seller on Amazon last time I heard. If you have not read it, you can still understand this story but the specifics (like Ingsoc, Big Brother, Newspeak) but not be clear, but I will explain it in the comments or notes. This is like a fusion fanfiction, I love it. 1984 is one of my favourite classics. I'm excited to put my favourite boys in this rather horrific setting.

One learns to keep a wary eye out for the east wind when living in solace. One, however, learns to live within the east wind when one lives in solace in Oceania. 

It came to him as an instinct to keep out a mind’s eye on the telescreens surrounding the realms of the city. It was a generous thing to call it a city, really, with the constant bombings and whatnot. But Big Brother addressed it as his city, and thus it was a city. The other facts weren’t true — and they did not exist, as a matter of fact. Harry lived amongst the proles, the lowest of the social pyramid of Ingsoc. He never really thought of himself as a lower human being, however. In order to feel low, there must be a high, but where he lived, in the dull, run-down city, there simply wasn’t a “high.” The telescreens that permeated every crevice and corner were the only evidence that indicated that something high did, in fact, exist. He did, with a vague sort of certainty, knew that there were others out there — members of the Party wearing those ministry-issued overalls. Members of the Thought Police. Big Brother. It just never crossed his mind that they were a possible subject of comparison. They simply weren’t. Party members — both the Inner and the Outer Party — were not to be discussed by proles, and the members, although technically allowed to “inspect” proles, never really made a move to approach them. It was a silent promise between those two worlds, and Harry abided by those rules rather willingly. Whether his will was something truly derived from his own was another question, a question that he wasn’t free to ask. 

 _Thoughtcrime_. A Newspeak word for… he wasn’t exactly sure what it was. Thinking? Thinking about certain things…? He wasn’t sure because he never really thought about it. Thinking about the word Thoughtcrime itself imposes ill intent and it was something that he could not afford. As a matter of fact, it was ill-advised to even think at all. Just following directions on the telescreen was satisfactory, and nobody ever questioned it. 

The telescreen made a loud, screeching noise, indicating it was time for the Two Minutes Hate. As usual, Big Brother appeared on the screen, speaking a few words reminding the slogan of the party: “War is peace, freedom is slavery, ignorance is strength.” And the screen faded out into a black screen showing just the phrase: _Big Brother is Watching You,_ in big, bold letters. Per usual.

Emmanuel Goldstein, looking as deranged as ever, appeared on the screen, blasting profanities and blatant nonsense. For those who bothered to understand it, it was some propaganda about the state of the nation, about how the war is no longer a reality, et cetera, et cetera. Nobody really cared about the substance anyway, it was simply the act of hatred that made it so provocative. It was like a new fix for a drug addict, and it made everybody wild. And, as always, the telescreen flicked to a montage of the wars Oceania was at with Eurasia, to prove Goldstein’s insane claims even more of an insanity. Only, today’s montage wasn’t Oceania at war with Eurasia, it was Eastasia. That was strange. Surely, for years, Oceania was at war with Eurasia, not Eastasia. Eastasia was our ally. But if anybody else thought it was strange, they didn’t show it, they kept on shouting at the screen, yelling profanities at the Eastasian men who were hanged from the ceilings by their necks — war prisoners. The same men they celebrated as their ally were now war prisoners, and nobody seemed to really care about that shift of reality. The strangeness of it all overtook Harry for a millisecond before he started to shout and yell just like the other people. It was not a conscious act of genuine hatred but rather a Pavlovian response to the montage occurring after the Two Minutes Hate. That’s how it was supposed to be — it was natural. 

But today there was another difference. A man, who was not Big Brother, appeared on the screen. He was pale, lithe, with hair such a light blonde that it nearly favored white. His eyes were stormy grey like the skies of the city, as it always was grey with the smog. London was always London, no matter what century it was. He had a very regal air about him, with a sort of royal presence that signaled he was a member of the Inner Party, even without the usual uniform in place. 

“Good evening, comrades,” The man spoke, his voice graceful and suave, just like the rest of him. He had the posh accent of the Inner Party members, accentuating and lengthening his vowels as he spoke. “The Ministry of Love is proud to announce that we have won against Eastasia, after decades of battle. For this win, men have braved their lives, sacrificed them with grace, and they will be cherished upon the hands of Big Brother. Eurasia, our long-time ally, has supplied us with aid during the long battle, and they are also to be appreciated. The prisoners of Eastasia will be hanged in the centre of the city. Members of the outer party as well as proles are expected to be present for this celebratory event. From the Ministry of Love, this was Draco Malfoy speaking. Please return to your daily proceedings.” The man ended the speech on a terse order, and the telescreen flicked off to its usual black, empty state. But everybody knew not to underestimate a black canvas. 

 _Doublethink_ , Harry recalled. Eastasia was not an ally, but the enemy. Eurasia was not the enemy, but an ally. He made an effort to ingrain that into his brain. And after, he simply forgot about the fact that Oceania was ever at war with Eurasia and also forgot about forgetting that particular part. 

For all he knew, Eastasia was always the enemy. The symbol of hatred. The reason for all the hardships in life. War made all of this sustainable.War is peace.

If Harry was doing anything wrong, he would never know because everybody else was doing the exact same thing. “Those bloody Eastasians! I can’t wait to see ‘em ‘anged tomorrow, serves ‘em ‘bout right, innit?” A man, a fellow prole whom he did not know the name of, which wasn’t surprising since he barely recalled his own name these days, grumbled on as he sipped cheap, rationed beer from the ministry. The man scrunched his nose as the gasoline flavor of low quality beer hit the back of his throat, but he swallowed nonetheless. The taste might be disgusting, but the high was well worth it. 

“Yes, yes. Looking forward to the hanging tomorrow. See you there, comrade.” Harry replied almost mechanically, and he skulked his way out of the pub. Nothing was wrong, nothing felt strange. Or actually, everything was strange but that was just right. If everything was right, that would have been incredibly strange. 

Harry kept walking towards his intended destination, which was his home. He knew the way by physical memory at this point, since he spent god knows how long walking from his workplace, where he built ships by the dock — meant to be used for the war, they said — and to the pub after work, and then to his home. It was a set routine and there was a very monotonous nature to it which he found comfort in. He knew that walking was technically not necessary, but it wasn’t as if he could apparate or use a portkey like the inner and outer party members. Magic still existed within his veins, but magic was rationed, like the rest of all of his supplies — food, water, clothes, chocolate, coffee, whiskey (at times), and magic. They all owned the same ministry-issued wand which only allowed one to draw out a certain amount of magical power from their core. When the rationed amount was depleted, the wand was rendered ineffective and it no longer drew the magic divested in his magical core. Inner party members had limitless supply of that magic — there were rumors that they didn’t even need a wand — and the outer party members could use not limitless, but a bountiful amount of magic. He saw outer party members apparating in and out of the borough that he lived in to inspect the town and the proles. It was a tedious thing, with nobody actually doing anything substantial. It was just an evidence of the bureaucracy that still existed within the ranks of the Party, not a measure of security. The telescreens kept an eye on everyone anyways. 

Harry was walking down his usual path when he saw a faint, red trail, barely visible, seeped into the blocks of the dark pavement. Since the pavement was so dark in its original colour, there was no way anyone else, and certainly not a regular prole could have seen it. All the same, Harry spotted the red trail. It reminded him of… blood. 

He kept walking, but a bit slower. He knew he shouldn’t stop, not in a street like this where telescreens were present at all corners. But he also knew that in a few moments, the carriage holding the war prisoners would come through for the hanging and the streets would be unbelievably crowded. It would only be for a short period of time, but if he slowed his pace enough, he knew he would still be able to sneak to the back alley where the trail was apparently coming from and confirm the source of the trail. He put on his usual blank expression and kept walking, just a tad bit slower. Not slow enough to be recognised, but slow enough so that he wouldn’t lose sight of the trail in his peripheral vision. Right on cue, the telescreens started blaring, announcing that the hanging was about to begin. The crowds started swarming into the streets, people busily making their way to the centre of the city, excited murmurings filling the air. Children as young as the age of five were running towards the centre, with little ropes in their hands to symbolize the event that they were attending. Harry felt that that should be disturbing to him somehow, but it wasn’t. Children were always like that. They made perfect spies, and they were a valuable asset to the Thought Police, incredibly agile and fast loyal. 

In that short span of time, Harry slowly mingled with the crowd, making himself unseen, and then moved towards the source of the trail. He had to take a long route around because he couldn’t be seen walking backwards towards the trail when everybody else was walking towards the centre. Luckily, he made it and he was now walking towards the back alley where the ministry had not set up telescreens; they didn’t need to — nobody ever dared to go anywhere outside of their normal territory and there was never any incentive to do so. And even if there were incentives such as the one given to Harry today, there was rarely a chance that a hanging would take place, giving him the chance to sneak out into the back alley. 

Harry wondered if this was what they called “luck.” With so little variables in his life, it was difficult to grasp the meaning of it. The Eleventh Edition of Newspeak dictionary didn’t even have the word “luck.” The closest he could point to “luck” in the dictionary was the word _doublegood,_ which meant good, in a larger quantity. 

Harry kept walking towards the trail, the redness coming thicker and thicker as he went. He was now almost ascertain that this trail was blood, since he saw more than enough of it in his lifetime. Building ships was not an easy job, and certainly not a safe one. People got injured and sometimes died. But whenever that happened, people were not very angry about it or even upset — they gladly took it upon as a sacrifice for the almighty Big Brother. 

He realized he was only looking at the floor as he followed the trail, only to stop when it ended in a red pool of blood, next to it being the source of all that blood. Harry realized he recognised the man, which was unusual. He never recognised anyone — not anyone except Big Brother. The unconscious man lying on the floor was Draco Malfoy, the man whom he saw on the telescreen just about half an hour ago. His originally aristocratic features were beaten down to a pulp, and his white-blonde hair was soaked crimson with his own blood. Nevertheless, Harry still thought the man had a regal presence, even when he was gaunt, beaten, and soaked in his own blood. The aura of his nobility was something that external deterioration could not eradicate. The flurry of shock came to him eventually, and he was left wondering what he was supposed to do. 

Harry remembered when one of the proles got injured. He was also unconscious, but without this much blood. He had checked his pulse. Harry moved towards the blonde, crouching down next to him, shifting his head a bit so he could get a better access to his neck. His body was still relatively warm and he had a beating pulse, although dim. Harry took out his wand from his pocket. Harry usually was not the one to use a lot of magic, so he had quite a bit of magic left in his wand, but he still didn’t have a lot. Certainly not as much as the man lying before him would. He debated between trying to heal him or rejuvenate him, settling on waking the man to consciousness first. There were deep gashes everywhere, and Harry only knew simple healing charms like _Episkey_ , which surely would not work for this sort of damage. 

“ _Reenervate_.” Harry spoke as he pointed his wand towards the man. He wasn’t sure if it worked at first, but then the blonde eyelashes fluttered and his eyes opened, slowly coming into focus, and his gaze slowly moved to Harry, narrowing on him. He was about to ask what happened, but the man suddenly scrunched up his face in pain and let out a groan, and Harry moved closer to put one hand on the man’s shoulder to get his attention. 

“Comrade, listen. Listen to me, what happened?” Harry asked, trying best to gain his attention. When he couldn’t, he used both hands to take the man’s head and turn it so he was facing him. “ _What. Happened.”_ He enunciated those words sternly, so that he could not be left without an answer.

“ _Sectumsempra_.” The man gasped out an answer, and grimaced as if it caused him pain to physically speak. Harry racked his brains, trying to remember if he heard that foreign spell somewhere, but couldn’t come up with an answer. 

“I don’t know what that is. You’re going to have to tell me what to do. What can I do to help?” Harry fought for his attention, and he was rewarded when the man uttered a few words. 

“Use.. My wand,” The man gasped in pain and stopped, “ _Vulnera Sanentur_.” He instructed, and Harry set to locate the man’s wand. He found it lying on the cobblestone by the blonde’s head, and he picked it up, marveling at the foreign feeling of a custom-made wand. It seemed to be about 10 inches, made of Hawthorn. The core of it he could not predict. He wasn't sure if the wand would respond to him, but it didn’t matter, not right now. If Harry didn’t do this, he was going to die. 

He had never performed a healing spell of this complexity before, and he didn’t even have a first idea what _Sectumsempra_ even was. Despite so, he pointed the wand at the man’s general direction and repeated the words, “ _Vulnera Sanentur.”_ He focused, putting all of his energy in it, and he gasped as the wounds started closing up, the blood traveling back into his body. As he continued to repeat the spell, the man gasped in relief. He started breathing more regularly, his breath coming in shallow breaths now rather than gasps and coughs. 

After a while, all the blood seeped back into his body. The only trace of blood that was left on him was the dried up blood in his hair and on his clothes. Harry hunched over and took deep breaths, suddenly feeling out of energy due to the vast amount of magic he just used. He was not used to using magic, and certainly not at this rate. He gave the wand back to the man and collapsed down, sitting next to where the man was slowly getting up. 

“Thank you.” The man said. “Without you, I would most certainly have died alone here, on this alley.” Harry looked up to meet his eyes. It was startling to see those stormy grey eyes looking directly at him and not from a telescreen. They were beautiful. The sudden revelation — his acknowledgement of beauty — jolted him a little, but he maintained his posture. 

“No problem, comrade.” At that, the man scowled a little. “Don’t call me comrade. Call me Draco. My name is Draco Malfoy. I assume you already know.” Draco held out his hand, a gesture of camaraderie. It was uncommon to make such a gesture in this world. Harry hesitated. However, seeming as he just saved Draco’s life, he assumed that this was an acceptable token, a grateful gesture which he should be allowed to take. He slowly took Draco’s hand in his own, gripping it lightly and shaking it succinctly. 

Draco soon removed his hand and brandished his wand again. pointing it towards his head and speaking a quick _Tergeo_ to rid of the blood and a _Scourgify_ for his clothes. These were all spells that Harry never used— it was a luxury to use cleaning spells like those. A luxury only people like Draco could have. 

“And what is your name?” Draco asked, putting his wand back in his holster. He moved to get up, and Harry helped him, as he was still in bad shape from the injuries. 

“My name is Harry. Harry Potter.” Harry replied, the feeling of full name on his tongue so foreign. 

“And you are a prole, I presume?” Draco inquired, and Harry answered him in a single, terse nod. “Most people are.” Draco simply stated, a fact which could not be rebuked. After all, 85% of the population were proles. But that simple statement of truth held so much more power than most realized. 

“You work for the Ministry of Love.” Harry muttered, keeping his voice low. Draco, on the other hand, did not seem afraid at all. “Ah, yes, is that what they call it? Funny name, isn’t it? Ministry of _Love_. Don’t start getting wrong ideas though, yeah?” Draco winked and smirked a little. Was that…a _joke_? A joke was known to be a funny statement, based on either exaggeration, self-deprecation, et cetera. But this was a bit more of a different nature than a mere joke. There was the factor that the joke was about the subject of ‘love’ and also there was a wink involved. So all of this could mean…

“Are you flirting with me?” Harry asked in a rather monotonous voice. It was not a rhetorical question made to express some sort of incredulity but rather a question of genuine inquiry. Draco just looked at him as if his question amused him. 

“Why, would you like me to?” Draco implored further. At this point, Harry made a calculation that Draco was, indeed, _flirting_ with him. 

“Um… I…. I don’t…” Harry didn’t have a response for that. People in Ingsoc did not engage in romantic relationships. In fact, the government had to clear all marriages, and if the couple showed even a bit of physical attraction towards one another, the marriage was banned. Harry technically had a wife, and they tried to do their duty to the Party by reproducing. That was the point of marriage — reproduction. His wife and he had a weekly routine, almost mundane, where his wife took off her clothes, laid flat on the ministry-standard mattress that was an unappealing shade of grey, and sort of laid there like the bed was a slab. Harry tried his best, but his wife’s body was usually unresponsive and if Harry managed to penetrate her body, she usually tensed and scrunched her face up in what seemed to be pain and just laid there, completely still, no movements or sounds. And all of this was done in front of the telescreen, to show that they were indeed doing the duty to the Party. He never once reached climax, and most of the times he couldn’t maintain his erection. 

Draco guffawed at Harry’s reaction and hunched over in laughter. It was a remarkable sight — seeing such joy. That never existed in his life, not even once. He wondered what was so funny that caused him such joy. He also wanted a taste. 

“What is so funny?” Harry asked. Draco laughed even more at that. He eventually settled down, calming his breaths. “No—nothing. I mean, just your face when I said that, it was, _ah_ , priceless!” Harry simply stood there like a statue and observed. Harry was honestly having a hard time believing that this was a man who just saw the brinks of death. 

“I think I ought to address the elephant in the room,” Draco remarked cheerily, “Why are you here?” Draco questioned. Harry almost laughed in response. _That_ was the elephant in the room? 

“Are you seriously going to ask me why I am here, when seconds ago you were bleeding to your death on that bloody pavement?” Harry challenged. Draco seemed to consider this for a moment.

“ _Hmm_ …. Yes, I am going to ask you. Sorry, old habits die hard.” Draco said it in a very nonchalant manner, but there was a slightly dangerous edge to his voice that Harry couldn’t catch earlier. 

“Um… Well…,” Harry hesitated. He knew he shouldn’t trust anyone, especially not people who worked for the Ministry of Love. When people were called into the Ministry of Love, their existence was removed. They were not killed — they simply no longer existed. “I… I saw something. Like a trail. It was red, the color of blood. So I… followed it.” Harry omitted the part about the hanging. But Draco didn’t let it slide. “Must have been convenient then, with the hanging going on. Slip right past those telescreens. I’d say it was quite brilliant. Job well done.” Harry’s eyes widened a bit, but he didn’t say anything. 

“Don’t worry about it. You’re not being dragged off yet aren’t you? You’re safe. For now.” Draco noted, his hands lingering on his wand. 

“The hanging is over now. I’d say the first part of your plan was brilliant, but you didn’t think about getting out without getting noticed now, did you?” Draco added. Harry nodded, feeling a bit stupid for not thinking that through. But at the moment, he could hardly think anything through. 

“No worries, Harry. I’ve got you.” Draco beamed. His confidence was startling — he seemed like the type of person who always had a plan B up his sleeve. “I can disillusion you, and I can apparate us to my place. I’ll sneak you into a secret route I know — one with no telescreens — and I’ll take you back to your place. You should be able to get back to your place in no time. Consider it a debt repaid.” One corner of Draco’s mouth lifted, shaping his lips in an enticing smile. 

Before Harry could make any sort of protest, Draco flicked his wand over him, disillusioning Harry, and Draco held out an arm, as an indication to hold onto him. 

His mind still wavering, Harry took Draco’s outstretched arm. Then, with the scent of ozone in the air, the world warped around him and he was gone.


	2. Expectation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a quick thank you to everyone who actually read this quite taxing story. it's not the most scintillating story at the moment, but I promise it will pick up. 
> 
> you can find me on:  
> tumblr: im-reverie.tumblr.com  
> twitter: @im_reverie 
> 
> Reverie

There are things you get used to in life, no matter how disturbing they may be — the constant bombings of the borough, the screech of the telescreen as it signalled the Two Minutes Hate, the wretched scent of the rationed whiskey. The feeling of apparition, however, was not one of them. 

Even though it was Harry’s first time apparating, he knew with a startling certainty that he would never get used to this feeling — it felt as if his gut was being twisted, stretched, and twirled as if it were taffy. And in a sense, it truly was going under the aforementioned actions, which didn’t ease the feeling of nausea. 

However, Harry had no time to recover since Draco, completely unaffected from the journey, beckoned for Harry to follow him with small, unnoticeable movements. That was when it all dawned upon Harry, that this man was a member of the Inner Party who worked for the Ministry of Love with a highly developed skillset. The way he was able to catch Harry’s attention with a twitch of a finger was so expertly orchestrated that it could not have been the work of a commoner. Harry even had suspicions that this man was one of the top members even within the Ministry of Love, perhaps part of the Thought Police. 

With the same level of artistry, Draco motioned Harry to stop walking, and he entered his flat. His flat was a surprisingly modest one in the suburbs. It had a very different feel than what Harry was used to — the busy crowds of London, the grey, grimy streets and the air thick with smog. Here, everything was light, soft, and it felt so detached from reality — the reality that he was used to. 

When Draco signalled him to follow, Harry entered Draco’s flat, feeling the warmth of the house engulf him. This he could _get_ used to, no matter how long it may take. He didn’t call his place a home, or a house, or a flat — those words were too genial, too affable. The word he opted to use was ‘lodging.’ The definition was accurate enough, and it implied a fleeting, momentary stay rather than a complete attachment. Perhaps, in the back of his mind, he wanted the stay to be an impermanent one. But his subconscious had been locked away from a long time ago, and he had never bothered to polish its lock. 

“You can talk now. My house is free from those horrid black screens,” Draco waved his wand towards Harry, cancelling the disillusion spell. “Now, we’ve got about 10 minutes max before the Party started to notice that one of the proles are missing. Follow me.” Draco started marching off down the hall, and Harry faltered for a moment before following. He was just never aware that houses could even have such long hallways. At the end of the hallway was a painting, set in a golden frame. Harry didn’t recognise the piece, but the brush strokes were incredibly familiar. He wasn’t given much time to contemplate the piece, however, since Draco lifted the painting, setting it to the side, and revealed a hatch on the wall. Draco turned a few knobs with precise dexterity and the hatch opened with a low creak. 

Harry stood, mouth gaping, and Draco just did one of his now-signature smirk and guided Harry inside the hatch. It was a tunnel — the height was just enough for Harry, a little bit too low for Draco. 

After a few minutes of walking in silence, Draco stopped abruptly. “This is it,” Draco waved his hand in a grand gesture as if he were presenting a show. Harry just stood dumbstruck, not seeing what he was apparently supposed to be seeing. Draco clapped his hands as if he remembered something, “Oh, right, I forgot. You’ve never actually been here before,” Draco moved towards the wall, where a ladder was present. “Climb this ladder up, you’ll reach the top of a well. Climb out of the well, go forward, don’t stop and don’t look back. And you will reach central London. Act like nothing happened and go straight to your home. And remember,” Draco gripped each side of his arms. “ _Don’t_ look back. It is critical that you do not. Do you understand?”

Harry felt the firmness of his grip and the seriousness of his tone, and he couldn’t think of a reason to disobey him. Other than the curiosity. Why didn’t he want him to look back? Nevertheless, he conceded. “Alright.” Draco immediately loosened his grip, getting back to his usual lofty, airy self. He was with Draco for approximately 40 minutes or less, and his personality was already ingrained into his memory. Determining a person’s whole identity from an outer perspective took less than an hour — he wondered why it took everyone their lifetime to figure out their own. 

“Off you go,” Draco beamed and patted him gently on the back. Harry proceeded to climb the latter, the surface of it rough like a calloused hand. He gripped each step of the ladder with a calculated risk, not knowing which second something might swoop down on him, bringing upon his doom. He could vaguely hear Draco walking away, the sound of his footsteps going fading further and further out of his earshot. He wanted to look down, the temptation was there, but he knew he shouldn’t. Draco told him not to. He should listen. 

There was a beam of light coming down from above, and Harry could just about see the familiar grey skies of London. He was close. The walls texture changed from a rough, earthy soil to a smoother yet coarse stone. The walls were smooth below, but as it got further up, it got drier and more severe. So Draco hadn’t lied. It was a well that he was climbing up. He reached the end of the ladder, hoisting himself up the railing, scratching his knees a bit as he did so, and climbed out of the well. All of this time spent in London, he’d never seen this well. He wondered why. Then he realised — he never trekked this path before, never tried to. He wondered the myriad of things he didn’t try yet and found himself growing a bit agitated at the thought. He was… he didn’t know his age exactly, but he was surely over at least 25, since his official prole status was given to him at that age, and that had been a few years ago. He was alive in this world for more than two decades, and he had seen little to nothing. If that had never bothered him before, it did now. In the midst of the irksome feeling, he also felt a glimmer of something — something that could be vaguely described as hope, but not as promising. 

It was a raw, unfamiliar, and original feeling. Harry knew he could try to search of the volumes of the Newspeak dictionary, which were the only dictionaries that existed at this point, but would not be able to point out the feeling that he was experiencing.

Because what he was feeling was not hope, not inspiration, but expectation. Expectation that something new was going to happen, that something real could actually happen. Hope was a dangerous element played well by the Party, because hope could be an illusion, a beacon of light that could be tweaked according to one’s interest. _War is peace_ — war, in a sense, acted as that blind hope. War was peace because the war was the reason for their continued suffering, and it justified their pain. When one felt dismal, they only needed to be reminded of the war and that, in a sense, was hope. It was fraught with lies and illusions but that was what made it so powerful. Hope existed in the Newspeak dictionary — in the name of Big Brother. 

Expectation, on the other hand, was something very real. You can hope for something that isn’t real, but you cannot expect something that is evidently false or impossible. People of Ingsoc dared to hope at times, perhaps the hope was fueled by the fury and heat of the Two Minutes Hate, but they never dared to expect anything. They forgot how to. The routine was so deeply ingrained into their bodies, it was nearly painful to think of anything in another perspective, another light. The moment Harry saw the blood trail on the pavement, the moment Harry the foreign spell rolled off his tongue, the moment Harry climbed the ladder up the well and stealthily made back his way to the borough near central London, he began to expect something. The expectation didn’t hold a colour since he had not the first clue in what a truly positive outcome would be versus an unequivocally negative one. But it was much more grounded, much more real than hope could ever be, and that made the blood in his veins pump a little faster. 

When he had gotten back to his tiny little lodging, he was nearly disappointed to find that absolutely nothing had changed. The mattress was still the dingy old grey colour, the half shot of whiskey he had left in the morning was still on the table, glinting in an orange colour as it reflected the light, and London was just London, all the same. Nothing had changed. What had changed, however, was the vexing feeling that came with that monotonous discovery, something that derived from the conviction that something was going to happen — _expectation_. 

And that thought was further reinforced by the recollection of his memories, and by the small trace of blood on the inside of his wrist. It was not a dream and it was not an illusion but a memory. Something had happened, and then there was an ample possibility that something could happen. 

Harry made his way towards the drawer, where he kept some things that technically were not illegal to possess but would not be promising to. In the drawer, he kept a few rolls of blank parchment, a quill, and a photograph. Not the digital hologram types they showed on the telescreen — it was a proper wizarding photograph, printed and soaked in a potion to enable movement within the photograph. It was a photograph from when he was a very young boy - still a toddler one might say - and his parents were with him. His mother had ginger hair and he knew he had her eyes. They were just as green, vibrant as his eyes were, only her eyes held life. His eyes, despite its original colour, had started resemble the overall dimness of the city. But that was before he had met _him_. Meeting Draco Malfoy had changed his life in a way that Harry did not even know the full extent of yet. 

Harry contemplated the photograph for a few moments, running his roughened thumb over his mother’s face on the photograph. The photograph showed age, slightly faded and yellowed, but that made it invaluable — most old records were destroyed in the Ministry of Truth, only to be replaced by more fresh, recent versions. He put the photograph down, opting for a roll of parchment and a quill. 

He took the items and took it to the desk that was situated furthest away from the telescreen, in hopes that it would not be legible to those on the other side. He knew it was inevitable that they would find it and he knew it was only a matter of seconds before they found about his rendezvous with Draco Malfoy—nobody got away with it in Ingsoc: he was already a dead man walking. But that gave him an unreasonable amount of confidence and it provided him with a stronger incentive to keep a record of it—to treasure the truth of today before it was warped and tortured under the hands of the Ministry of Love. 

It was a terrible irony, that—his revelation was found from a man who was probably at the heart of the Ministry of Love, yet he knew his ultimate downfall would be by the said Ministry. He remembered the crooked smile of the blonde man’s face and wondered if this was what interest felt like — _to be interested in another human being was both a fascinating and a tasking notion_ , he decided. 

With shaking hands, he picked up the quill, dipped it into the bottle of ink, and started writing. The scratch of the quill against the surface of the parchment felt so foreign since he was already so accustomed to using the Speakwrite to record things. But he persisted nevertheless. When he wrote, he wrote the way everybody wrote these days — no descriptive language, no imagery, no unique style of writing. Just a simple dictation of what happened. The Ministry of Truth always required a simple statement like that, always issue via the Speakwrite. Simple statements were a lot easier to be reconstructed, in hindsight. 

 

_August, 1984._

_A trail of blood, barely visible against the dark pavement. Followed the trail. Found a man, lying there, covered in his own blood. He mentioned Sectumsempra. Healed him with his wand, using a foreign spell. He awoke, took me to his house, and led me to the well. The well brought me back to London. He told me not to look back. He left._

 

He was technically done writing the facts down. This could just be it, the simplicity of the statements made him marvel at the dichotomy between the actual events that took place and what it looked like on a roll of parchment — bland, plain, and unexciting. So Harry, in a flurry of emotions and irrationality, chose to add a sentence of his own. A purely subjective sentence, perfectly capable of becoming distorted by external forces if they ever endeavoured to, which they most certainly would. Harry knew it was a dangerous decision, but in the back of his head, there was a voice reminding him that he was already a dead man walking. So he wrote.

 

_August, 1984._

_A trail of blood, barely visible against the dark pavement. Followed the trail. Found a man, lying there, covered in his own blood. He mentioned Sectumsempra. Healed him with his wand, using a foreign spell. He awoke, took me to his house, and led me to the well. The well brought me back to London. He told me not to look back. He left._

 

_He was beautiful._

**Author's Note:**

> This story was fun to write! I can't wait to continue this. 
> 
> Hey my name is Reverie. You can connect with me on tumblr and twitter if you'd like. @im_reverie on twitter and @im-reverie on tumblr.


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